


Year's End

by auri_mynonys



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Drunk Sex, F/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-28
Updated: 2013-03-28
Packaged: 2017-12-06 18:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/auri_mynonys/pseuds/auri_mynonys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eowyn gets a little tipsy and ends up saying and doing things she may not otherwise have done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-War of the Ring. Warned for dubious consent mostly because Eowyn is very tipsy and not entirely in control of her faculties when the sex happens. Eowyn is young-ish here, but not necessarily underage. However, there is obviously an age gap between her and Grima. We don't actually know how old Grima is, but I generally give an age gap of about 13 years.

Gríma son of Gálmód was a hateful person by nature. He hated things in detail, with a violence unparalleled among men, elves, and dwarves alike. His loathing had reached such epic proportions that it had become a talent, an art of which only Gríma was the master.

He despised nothing more than those things which best represented the Riddermark to him: hated horses, hated singing, hated the fashions and the endless grassy plains – hated swords and everything to do with war and battle.

But he hated, more than any of these, the festivals held at Meduseld – perhaps because they were the culmination of the things he loathed. There was drinking and dancing and singing, and the blatant worship of all things heroic, manly, and war-like – all the things he was not capable of and could never force himself to be.

Although he hadn’t believed it would be possible, festivals had become even worse for him of late; and it was all the fault of Rohan’s stubborn, towheaded princess.

Grima would have liked to say he hated her too; and at first, that was what he believed. While he disliked her cousin and positively reviled her brother, there was something special about her he could not quite name – some particular detail that drove him to madness and turned his eyes towards her even when he would rather have been looking elsewhere.

Her swordplay, he had thought at first, was the thing that most annoyed him. That she so stubbornly persisted in her training even when her brother and cousin’s disapproval was made plain irritated him beyond sense. Did she not know the things that happened to those who defied what society demanded of them? Did she not feel the pressures he did, the urge to break beneath the weight of the courtiers’ angry stares?  
  
Then he thought that it was her manners – so icy and aloof, cold as winter in the mountains. She seemed to know the rules of court behavior, and kept to them rigidly – when she understood them; but at times, she would do or say something wildly inappropriate, and had the nerve to appear unaware of her failure, until some courtier haughtily corrected her.

Then he thought it was the sadness in her eyes that troubled him most – the sadness that never went away. What right had Éowyn to be sad? She was a princess, and beautiful, and much-beloved, if occasionally belittled for her poor manners and strange interest in war; the world lay at her feet for the taking, but she did not seem to see it.

And then, for awhile he thought it was the way she looked at him – boldly, eyes curious and probing. Hers was a gaze he could not dismiss, not like the hateful glares he received from everyone else. Hers was a gaze that made him long to shrink away; and yet he did not want it to stop, not ever, no matter what it was she saw in him. Hers was a gaze that saw all of him and did not flinch, did not judge, did not dismiss. Hers was a gaze that did not hate.

It was then that a thought began to trouble him, a dangerous thought he tried desperately not to entertain: that perhaps it was not hatred he felt for her, but love. He shied away from the idea at once, when it first occurred to him; how could he love Éowyn, who was everything a woman of Rohan should be, everything he should despise? The thought was laughable.

But it came back to him, again and again; and over time, his excuses began to run out.

So it was that he was forced to admit that he had fallen stupidly and desperately in love with the princess of Rohan: loved her beyond reason and beyond explanation. He loved her stubbornness, and the way she looked with a sword in her hand, fierce and grim and proud; he loved the way her cold shield broke when she made some manner of social misstep. He loved the way her eyes met his, and the sadness he saw therein – loved all he saw in her that was a reflection of himself.

At first his love was pure and bright and warm, a shining candle in the darkness of Rohan’s winter. But then, left untended, it began to grow wild, and soon it was devouring him, consuming every thought and every passing hour. He ached for her, ached to hold her, to claim her, to make her his; but he did not dare to touch her, or speak to her of his feelings. She was the daughter of kings, and he a half-breed bastard; the whole of Rohan would be against them, even if she would ever deign to have him.

Feast nights, as always, were the worst. On feast nights, Éowyn’s tongue was loosened by drink and dancing, and she became a warm, kindly creature who laughed and talked with every courtier in the hall. Men swarmed around her then, flirting, touching, smiling secret smiles. Gríma hated them then, more than any other of the long list of things he despised. He would have smote them all, had it been in his power; but it was not, and so he sat alone in a dark corner and watched her, despising the men who danced with her and dueled for her affection, wishing death upon the hall and wishing death upon himself for failing to be worthy of her.

Truth be told, he had made little enough attempt to engage her attention. He knew that to seek her out would only end in disaster for him. So he had avoided her, and watched her in secret, and ached for her in silence, praying the infatuation would wither and die like a flower left to rot.

It had been some days since he had been forced to see her, and he had begun to think that perhaps he could move on; but that had been a foolish hope. Here, now, at the festival to celebrate the turning of the year, Éowyn was looming before him more beautiful than ever; and the love he’d hoped to kill was blooming anew, bright and warm and painful in his chest.

She had been drinking too much. Her cheeks were a rosy pink, her eyes bright and glassy. She laughed loudly and inelegantly at the jests her brother made, much to the great chagrin of the court’s ladies; and she danced with abandon, merely laughing the louder when she missed a step or two.

And oh, even drunk, she was beautiful.

She had done something with her hair at the beginning of the night – some elaborate knot of braids coiled at the nape of her neck – but it had long since begun to come undone, leaving wild wisps flying about her face. She had kicked off her shoes long ago and was wandering barefoot, her white skirt gathered in her hand. The gown she’d chosen was quite beautiful, white with striking silver embroidery and a panel of silver at the front. She could have been the Queen of Winter, come to bring snow and ice and frost to the Riddermark; yet nothing about her was cold tonight. She was warm and lovely and ever so alive, so unlike her usual sober self that the mere sight of her seemed to make everyone who encountered her smile.

Gríma longed to approach her, but did not dare. Seated in a dark corner, far from the reaches of the torchlight and the rowdy riders, he sipped a cup of spiced wine and brooded, staring over the brim in her direction. His eyes followed her wherever she went – moving from courtier to courtier, smiling and laughing and speaking sweet words to them. A few she was not so kind to, making remarks that turned their smiles sour and caused their compatriots to laugh uproariously. Éowyn was usually the picture of polite restraint; but tonight, it seemed, the drink had loosened her tongue.

Gríma wondered what exactly she would say to him, if he gave her the chance. Would it make him smile, or make him flinch away? Would she embarrass him in front of the entire court, or speak some kind word that would change everyone’s opinion of him?

He did not think he wished to know.

Swallowing the last of his wine, he slammed down his goblet on the table and rose. It was long past time to end this torment for the night. He had books waiting for him in his chambers, and there at least he could brood in peace and quiet.

He slipped away as silently as he could, keeping to the walls and shadows and diligently avoiding carousing courtiers as they stumbled into his path. No one made any attempt to stop him from leaving. Indeed, no one seemed to notice he was going.

He slipped away, behind the throne and through the left passage, to the blissful silence of the corridor that would take him to his chambers.

He had not gotten more than a few yards, however, when he heard the light patter of bare feet on stone.

“Gríma!”

He froze at once, stiffening and turning slowly; that was Éowyn’s voice, he could swear it. “My lady?” he said, turning to face her fully. And indeed, it was the lady herself: still bright and beautiful, her lips parted and cheeks flushed as she met his gaze with shining eyes.

She took a small step forward, stumbling a little. He leaped forward to catch her and drew back at once, flinching and folding his hands behind his back. No, Éowyn was not his to touch; should Éomer see Gríma handling her so familiarly, he would have Gríma’s head. “Is there something you require of me, my lady?” he asked, lifting his chin. His voice was frosty in the quiet chamber, polite but hardly welcoming.

Éowyn cast him a wounded glance, lips parting a little more. “I came to see why you would leave us when the night is still young,” she said. “I did not even realize you were in the hall until you left so suddenly. Would you go so soon? The singing has not even begun!”

Gríma winced. Meduseld’s feasts usually ended in hours of singing, drunken renditions of the old songs where someone inevitably forgot the words and someone else was inevitably off-key. “I find I have no taste for singing, princess,” he said; “And I do not believe I am welcome in most circles. But it is kind of you to seek me out. Your concern is touching.” He bowed to her. “Yet you will be more sorely missed than I. Do not worry yourself over my condition. Enjoy your night. You have much to celebrate, and many to celebrate with, I’m certain.”

He rose and started to turn away, but something about Éowyn’s expression made him stop. She tilted her head to the side, a little like a puppy who has found itself confused. “Have I offended you somehow, m’lord?” she asked, slurring  _my lord_ like a peasant. The drink had quite taken her, it seemed, even more than usual.

Gríma’s eyes widened. “Never, my lady,” he said. “You have been nothing but kind to me in what time I have spent here.”

Éowyn took a few more steps towards him, small, uncertain steps, wobbling as she went. “It’s just that you don’t seem to like me very much,” she said. She struggled to stand straight for an instant, and finally settled with her back against the wall, her head turned towards him. Despite however drunk she was, her eyes were clear and her gaze piercing. “You do not speak to me, or look at me at all anymore. Have I said something to upset you? I meant no insult if I did.”

Gríma watched her start to slide down the wall, clenching his fists to keep from leaping towards her. He longed to gather her up in his arms, to carry her back to his chambers and lay her on his bed –

_No,_ he thought, gritting his teeth.  _No, you can’t. She won’t have you. Stop wishing for something that will never be given you._

Aloud, he said, “You have not insulted me, princess; and I apologize if I seem cold. I am afraid I struggle to express myself properly in conversation.”

“Now that,” said Éowyn, pushing herself free of the wall and stumbling towards him, “Is a lie. I know no better conversationalist than you. You could convince a blind man of the need to purchase himself a looking glass, if you so wished.”

Gríma swallowed hard. Drunken Éowyn, he was beginning to realize, was remarkably perceptive. “Skill as an orator does not translate into social interaction,” he replied. “Be careful, princess, you’ll fall if you don’t watch your step – ”

“’M fine,” Éowyn said, lifting her chin defiantly and placing her hands on her hips. She wobbled a little as she tried to straighten herself to her full height. “And it does so. You could express your true feelings perfectly well if you so chose. Which leads me to believe you are hiding something.” She leaned towards him, narrowing her eyes. “I must have offended you. Are you certain I did not say something stupid once? I have been known to do so, from time to time.”

Gríma could barely catch his breath. She was so absurdly close to him, and drunk to boot; all he had to do was reach out…

He clenched his fists the tighter, and forced himself to say, “There is nothing in the world you could do to offend me, princess, save to reject me as the rest of the court has done.”

Éowyn drew back an inch or so, eyes widening. She looked him over sadly, tilting her head to the side once more. “Never,” she said, with such warmth and affection that Gríma nearly closed the gap between them and kissed her then and there. “You have done nothing to deserve their hate.”

He smiled. “Some would not think it so.”

“Some are stupid.” Éowyn swayed a little in place, squeaking in alarm as her balance was upset. Before he could stop himself, Gríma jumped towards her and caught her around the waist, pulling her tightly against him – more tightly than he’d originally intended. She fell with her palms open against his chest; and for a moment she stared at her fingers as if she could not be entirely certain they were real.

“We – we should get you to your chambers, my lady,” Gríma said, his voice hoarse and full of longing. “I do not think you are stable enough to return to the hall.”

Éowyn made a small noise in the back of her throat and lifted her face to his, looking up at him with the kind of adoration he had so desperately longed to see in her eyes, week after week after lonely week. “You’re not like the rest of them,” she said, biting her lip.

He should let her go. He should release her at once, or at least place his arm somewhere other than her waist – should remove her from the tight circle of his arms, before someone spotted them. But no matter how many times he told himself to release her, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Oh?” he managed, transfixed by her expression.

She smiled, an impish little smile he desperately wished to capture with his mouth. “You’re not an ass, for one thing,” she said.

He laughed, a sudden, high spike of laughter that he immediately swallowed, fearing someone would hear. “I believe they call that  _damning with faint praise,_ my lady,” he said. “But I shall take such praise as you may give me, faint though it be.”

“Oh, I did not intend it to be faint,” she said, eyes large and shining in the torchlight. “What I meant to say is that you are better than them, in almost every respect. More interesting, more intelligent – ”

Dear lord, he wanted to kiss her. The urge had never been so overwhelming. He pulled her closer, hardly daring to breathe, lest Éowyn realize to whom she was speaking and come out of this spell cast upon her. “You are kind, my lady,” he said. “But you flatter me.”

“I don’t,” she said, knitting her brows in affront. “I am a very poor flatterer, I’ll have you know. I am no good at lying; and you must lie to flatter properly. All I seem to be capable of doing is offending.”

Gríma smiled at her, tenderly reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “It is no bad thing to be incapable of deceit, princess,” he said. The title was almost an endearment, and rang with his affection.

She bit her lip, smiling as she did so. The gesture was unbearably wonderful, a small quirk Gríma had never noticed before. He hid it away in his memory, for future dark and lonely nights. He would need this memory, these moments, in the days that were to come.

Éowyn’s smile did not fade, but became more thoughtful as the moments passed. She seemed to decide something then; she nodded once, firmly, and popped up on her toes, catching him unsteadily around the neck and kissing him.

He gasped against her mouth, taking hold of her and clinging as though his life depended on it. This could not possibly be happening to him; he was not worthy of Éowyn, had always been beneath her. Could it be that she had felt as he had all along – that he had tormented himself for nothing?

He was not sure what he had expected Éowyn’s kisses to be like. He knew now they were fierce and hungry and gave no quarter. Éowyn, a true child of Eorl’s bloodline, took exactly what she wanted from him, parting his lips with her tongue, sliding her thigh up to his hip. When he tried to pull back for breath before she was ready, she yanked his head back down to her and kissed him all the harder, smiling against his mouth when he gasped.

When she finally released him, she was smiling like a cat who had caught a mouse. Gríma desperately tried to catch his breath, refusing to let her free of his arms. “Éowyn,” he said, his voice a rasp; “My princess, my beautiful lady…”

She grinned, all bared teeth and impish delight. “Do you know the things I have wanted to do to you, counsellor, all these many months?” she said.

His breath caught and hitched in his throat. “Oh, do tell,” he growled, fingers raking against her thigh.

Her grin widened. “I do not think you are prepared for the litany of filth I’d so very indiscreetly share with you, if you push enough,” she said.

Gríma growled again, the low, hungry growl of a predator about to feast on his prey. “Showing is better than telling, they say,” he said. “If my princess would grant me a demonstration…”

She licked her lips and smiled again, lower lip catching between her teeth. “A demonstration? I should count you most bold, sir, to even ask such a thing.”

He leaned his forehead against hers. “Take from me what you will, and keep from me what you wish,” he said. “From the moment I saw you, I was yours to do with as you pleased.”

Éowyn arched against him eagerly at that, a small cry escaping her lips. “Not fair,” she said, her breath catching. “Not fair, to undo me with a few well-chosen words…”

“I will undo you with far more than words, precious,” he said, catching her hips and tugging until she was flush against him. “All you need do is ask.”

Éowyn snarled like a cat and kissed him again, violently this time, grinding her hips against him and tearing a moan from him. “Princesses don’t ask, my lord,” she said, when she pulled back. “Princesses command, and counsellors obey.”

“Command me, then,” he said, dipping down to kiss her throat. “I am your servant; I will do whatever you ask of me.”

He half expected her to pull back then, to step away and smile and laugh and have this all be some cruel, awful joke; but when she pulled back, the look of wanting was still there, burning brighter than the torches in the hall. She caught his hand and pulled, stumbling drunkenly down the corridor towards his rooms. He wondered if she even knew, truly, where they were. “Do you have any idea where you’re going, princess?” he asked, amusement lacing his voice as she dragged him along behind her.

“Shhh,” she said, casting him an irritable glance. “I can find them!”

Gríma very much doubted she could, given she had nearly pulled him past his door already. “Can you indeed,” he said, catching her around the waist. He turned her towards his door and lightly pushed her towards it, swallowing a laugh.

“I meant to go there,” she said, as loftily as she could manage, before pulling on the door and stumbling inside.

It briefly occurred to Gríma that he had not had a chance to do anything to his chambers – that Éowyn might see something that would frighten or alarm her, and that that would be enough to changer her mind; but seconds later it was plain Éowyn was rather too involved to notice anything about his chambers. As soon as he had closed the door, she flung herself back into his arms and let him carry her to his bed. He pressed her down onto the furs and practically fell on top of her, pinning her beneath him. “Well?” he said, smiling. “Command me, then, princess. What would you have of your servant?”

She caught his shoulders and pushed him off of her, rolling him onto his back. Then she clambered on top of him, shoving her skirts aside and straddling him in a most unladylike manner. Gríma growled and squirmed beneath her, whimpering when she rolled her hips. “You should start be removing your clothes,” she said, grinning impishly. “Or, if you would prefer, I could do it for you.”

She did not wait for him to respond. She was tugging and pulling at his cloak seconds later, ripping it free from his body. He watched in awe as her fingers tripped and fumbled their way through the buttons of his tunic, squirming his way out of his clothes and praying she would not immediately turn and run at the sight of him.

She did not. She stayed on him with the same delighted smile, bending over him to kiss her way down his throat. Panting, he groped for the laces at the back of her dress, tugging and pulling until they came free at last.

Éowyn sat back and slid out of her dress, struggling for a moment to escape the sleeves. “You know,” she said, wearing a small, sulky frown, “I don’t think I’m entirely sober enough to do half the things I’d like to you.”

“How disappointing,” Gríma said, smiling up at her. “Would you have me take over for you, then? I promise I can think of many things I’d love to do to you…”

Éowyn grinned and rolled off of him, flopping onto her back. What was left of the braided knot came loose at last, spreading in a tangled mass behind her, bright and golden across his dark furs. “Very well,” she said, waving a hand. “Do what you will to me, counsellor. But my coordination is not what it could be, so do not ask too much of me.”

He laughed and crawled on top of her, biting back a cry as she willingly parted her legs for him. He thought again that at any moment this spell could break – this precious gift could turn into a lie – but it didn’t, not even when he lifted her hips and slid slowly inside her, watching her face change from anticipation to ecstatic delight; not even when he began to thrust, slowly, kissing her as he moved inside her. She was tight and hot around him, and even his slightest movement seemed to make her quiver. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he moved again, faster this time, and she arched against him with another moan, hissing his name between tightly clenched teeth.

_This is a dream,_ his mind insisted;  _a beautiful dream, but a dream nonetheless._ But Éowyn was painfully real beneath his hands: he could feel each shudder and twitch of her body, and sometimes she would scratch his back, leaving long, sharp lines across his skin.

He did not dare to blink, lest she fade beneath him in the space of a moment. He laced his fingers through hers and pinned her hands beneath his, bending to trace a path of kisses down her neck. Éowyn cried out and rocked her hips with his thrust, clutching him so tightly he thought for a moment she might strangle him. “Grim,” she whimpered, wrapping her legs tightly around his waist. “ _Grim_  –!”

“Éowyn,” he gasped, breathing hotly in her ear. “Oh, princess, I’ve wanted you so long…”

She growled, a possessive sound this time, and kissed him fiercely. He could taste the mead she’d been drinking, sweet and succulent. “Mine,” she said, tangling her fingers in his hair. “My counsellor.”

He moaned at that, twitching inside her. Éowyn grinned up at him, then moved him with remarkable fluidity to his back once more, positioning herself so that she was straddling him again. She rolled her hips in a circle, slow and torturous, and Gríma bit back another cry, desperately fighting the need for release. She smirked, rolled her hips again, paused. She was tormenting him. He buried his fingers in his furs and clung to them until his knuckles turned white, gasping with each rotation of her hips.

Unable to bear the torment, he growled and pushed himself in a sitting position, catching her before she could slide off of him and shifting so he was on his knees. Control was still Éowyn’s, but at least he could see her, kiss her, touch her. He bent down to her breasts and sucked at a nipple, biting and licking until it was a hard peak against his tongue. Éowyn tilted her head back and moaned, long and low, and began to move on him, controlling each thrust, controlling him. He clung to her desperately as she moved faster and harder against him, fighting against his own needs until she was screaming, clenched tightly around him. Finally he let himself go, a ragged moan torn from him in his release, his fingers leaving lines down Éowyn’s back.

She sagged against him, making noises that sounded vaguely like a contented baby bird. It was not a dignified sound, but it was precious and thrilled him all the same. She kept her arms around him, folding her legs inward. It seemed she could not quite bear to be parted from him, which suited him well; he didn’t want her to leave his lap, ever.

He kissed her ear lightly and murmured, “Did that please you, princess? Was it all you had hoped for?”

“Mmm.” Éowyn leaned back, smiling crookedly at him before leaning in to kiss him. The kisses were tender and soft; he accepted them with pleasure, until she pulled back and made her way off of his lap. Irritably, he grabbed for her again, only to find her yanking him down onto the bed beside her. She found a way beneath his furs, somehow; he had to scramble to burrow beneath them with her. When he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against him, she made a small, contented sigh. “There are still things I want to do,” she said, her voice little more than a sleepy mumble. “So many things. I didn’t even have the chance to tie you up.”

He laughed at that, a low, startled chuckle at the back of his throat. “Next time, sweetling,” he said, kissing the nape of her neck.

“Next time,” she agreed, and promptly fell asleep.

Sleep was not so quick to arrive for Gríma, no matter how greatly he wished for it. As happy as he was, one nagging thought remained and refused to go away:

_What will happen when Éowyn awakens?_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eowyn awakens to find herself a hungover mess in a certain counsellor's bed.

Éowyn had yet to escape from a festival night without a blinding headache and a roiling stomach. She always swore she would never, ever drink so much again; that next time, she would exercise a little more self-control. But it was hard to be possessed of self-control when her lout of a brother so enjoyed challenging her to drinking contests.

One day she would remember not to take the bait; but that day apparently had yet to come.

She awoke, as usual, to a headache so spectacular that she could barely move for a moment. She groaned and buried her face in the cushion, praying that her chambers would still be very dark. Light was not kind to her on mornings like this one. “Ass,” she said aloud, the sound muffled by her pillow. It did nothing physically to help her, but sometimes a string of curses cheered her enough that she could force herself to rise.

She was about to launch into such a string when she heard a chuckle, low and soft and very much belonging to a man.

“Oh dear,” said Gríma’s voice. “You are in a fine state, aren’t you, princess?”

Éowyn jerked up from the pillow, eyes wide for just an instant – but the movement hurt, and she almost immediately winced and closed her eyes again. “What – why – ” she began – and then the memory came back to her, rather like a brick smacking her in the back of the head: chasing after the counsellor, falling against him (not entirely without intention), saying things she would never have dared to say while sober…

“Oh, lord,” she said, collapsing face first back into the pillow.

Éowyn had been lucky so far in her drinking, in that she’d mostly been able to avoid complicated and embarrassing situations like this. She hadn’t let herself be carried off by any of the drunken riders, and, until now, had yet to throw herself at someone. Apparently she’d had just enough to drink to change that particular streak of luck.

Still, she wasn’t altogether surprised to find herself here, though the rest of the court no doubt would be. Few in the history of Rohan had been as widely disliked as Gríma son of Gálmód. Hatred of her uncle’s counsellor was almost universal here; but Éowyn had never hated him. In truth, he fascinated her, beyond reason and beyond sense. Somehow, despite all of the hatred leveled towards him, he had managed to rise to a position of incredible power; and even now he stood strong in that position, against all odds.

People called him a coward, but in Éowyn’s estimation, it took a peculiar sort of courage to weather the petty insults and constant glares of the court, as he did.

Éowyn had been told she could have anyone in Rohan if she so wished, that any of the riders would gladly call her his; but she had no interest in a man who would be threatened by her love of swords, who would flinch away from her forward tongue and even more forward desires. Éowyn had long ago come to understand that her tastes could be very particular, and that her desire for control, for power, would prove to be a struggle with most of the men she knew.

Gríma was different. Gríma looked at her like she was human, like she had a right to carry the sword she so loved. He had never once mocked her for her swordplay; said nothing about the dirty hems of her skirts, or her tendency to swear at inappropriate times. Such things had only ever seemed to bring the ghost of a smile to his lips. And sometimes, when she was feeling particularly lonely, even in the midst of court, she would look up and see his eyes on her; and there she would see reflected her own loneliness, her sadness and her suffering.

He knew her, even if he seemed to be avoiding her. His eyes told her so.

She could not recall how she had come to decide that she wanted him. He was not beautiful by any means: pale-skinned and thin-lipped, with a nose that could take her eye out if she turned wrong. But it was strange how attraction could change opinions. After a time all she noticed were his hands, with their beautiful long fingers; his eyes, the brightest, most crisp blue she had ever seen. Even his nose became a noble feature.

In the end, it was not his face that mattered; it was what she saw in his eyes, in the way he spoke to her, in the way he carried himself. In the end, it was the things she recognized in him that reminded her of herself that attracted her the most.

Éowyn had always known the path would be a rocky one. Her cousin and brother would have palpitations of the heart if they knew; the court would revolt, and Edoras itself would possibly go into an uproar if they learned of it. But Éowyn was decidedly a stubborn woman, and once she had decided to have him her mind could not be changed. Someday, somehow, she would make her affections plain, and see where that would take her.

She had not meant for it to be like this, though; waking in the morning with a headache in his strange bed, when she was hardly able to be coherent. She had not meant to spew all the fantasies and thoughts she’d intended to keep her own, laid bare in coarse and drunken language.

But then again, it appeared to have worked better than her original strategy; so maybe it wasn’t so bad, after all.

Gríma’s voice was colder when he spoke next, breaking through her thoughts. “I am sensing a not inconsiderable amount of regret.”

Oh, dear. And now he was  _angry_ at her, had completely misinterpreted her response to finding herself here. He was a fragile beast, her counsellor.She lifted her head once more, squinting around the room for him. She thought she could see his blurred outline off to the left somewhere, but she wasn’t certain yet. “Well, it wasn’t the artful seduction I had originally intended,” she said. “So in that sense, I suppose you’re correct.”

The outline moved and came into clearer focus – definitely Gríma, now. Even with her splitting headache and blurry vision she recognized his eyes, that perfect shade of icy blue that never failed to make her heart jump. Gríma was not possessed of features that normally passed for attractive, but his eyes at least were beautiful. He was studying her warily, as though he wasn’t certain he could trust her yet; and was that a cup in his hand?

“If by ‘artful seduction’ you mean you intended a slow and subtle approach to alert me to your interest, I’ll have to say I prefer your drunken methods better,” he said, coming to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. “I’m told I read people very well, but apparently I’ve been misreading you for months. Unless this was some drunken fit of which you would prefer never to speak again…”

Éowyn propped herself upon her elbows, summoning just enough of her humanity to be indignant. “I do nothing without intention, sir, even while drunk,” she said. “I meant all the things I said and did last night – every last one.”

She wondered, briefly, if she would regret saying that. A few seconds later, she knew she would; Gríma’s lips twitched into a smirk as he said, “Did you? So you  _are_  adamant on a next time, and – let’s see, tying me up? And sometime during the night, when I woke you up to give you water, you mentioned  _riding me like a prize stallion…_  and you mentioned something else, about riding crops and – ”

Éowyn forced herself to sit up, her face flaming. “How – um – specific of me,” she said, hurriedly cutting him off. “My mouth does tend to run when I’ve…” She sighed and hid her face in her hands. “I could die right here and that would be acceptable.”

He chuckled again, a quiet laugh that set her heart pounding in her chest. “I’d rather you stay alive, sweetling. You’ve promised me quite a lot – I’d hate to say of you that you preferred to die, rather than keep your word.”

She peered out from her fingers to glare at him. He was smiling at her, lips half-quirked, impish and precious. She realized she had rarely ever seen him smile. “I’d certainly keep my word on that riding crop right now, if I didn’t feel so awful,” she said, still hiding behind her hands.

He arched a nonexistent brow, the smirk widening. “Punishment for my insolence, princess?” he said. “I’d deserve it, I suppose, but I’d just as soon use it on you for being such a tease.”

Despite herself, her embarrassment was fading. She had not expected him to be so playful about the whole affair. He always seemed so serious in court, and in conversation with the other courtiers. If he happened to slip and make some sarcastic jest, for the most part he covered it with flattery or let it lie when his target didn’t notice.

She liked this private version of Gríma. But then, she supposed she’d always known she would.

She let her hands drop, gnawing lightly at her lip. There was little point in being shy at this stage, even though she felt shy. The only thing between his eyes and her skin were his furs, and that was a thin enough shield, easily removed. And what good was that shield anyway, when he had already experienced her at her most intimate and vulnerable?

She sat up straighter and let the furs slide away, feeling them pool in her lap. Gríma inhaled sharply, his eyes flickering down to take her in. It seemed to take a great exertion of his will for him to look back up again, back into Éowyn’s now-smirking face.

He cleared his throat and held out the cup in his hands to her. “I made you something,” he said. “To help with your head. I have heard rumors that you do not take alcohol very well.”

“Better than some,” Éowyn said indignantly. “Certainly better than half the ladies in court, who cry sickness and lay in bed all day after a festival.”

He smiled. “You have a strong will,” he said. “But your head and stomach are less strong. Here, this will help.”

Éowyn wrinkled her nose, but took the cup and prepared herself for some awful-tasting brew that she would no doubt attractively vomit back up almost at once. Lord, she had not thought this through at all. If she had actually planned for this, she would have brought a change of clothes, or made him come to her rooms; and she wouldn’t have done it when she knew she would be suffering the aftereffects of her drinking, none of which were very pretty.

Then again, if Gríma could handle her at her most unattractive, maybe that was more proof that she had been right to want him.

She took a deep sip from the cup, and was surprised to find that it was something sweet and delicious, and immediately soothing to her stomach. She gave a soft sigh of contentment and settled back against the cushions, taking a moment to look around Gríma’s quarters. Everything was in perfect order, from the books on the small table at the side of his bed to the clothes in his wardrobe, which was standing open. He must have awoken a long time ago, to have dressed and made her whatever sort of potion this was.

Éowyn looked back to Gríma. He was staring at her like a small boy waiting for praise on a drawing he’d made, wide-eyed and unblinking. “Is it helping?” he asked.

She smiled. “Yes, very much,” she said. “What’s in it?”

Some of the tension seeped out of him at that. “Honey and lemon, and some ginger root,” he said. “It’s an older remedy. Deorwyn – my father’s wife – used to make it for him, after every festival night.”

_My father’s wife._ Éowyn had heard the rumors of Gríma’s bastard blood; the cold reference did all but confirm it. “That was sweet of her,” she said, cautiously.

Gríma shrugged. “They were very much in love, despite… everything,” he said, letting the word hang heavily between them. “She taught me a few things. She liked to pretend I wasn’t a burden to her. I suppose she thought I would be best served in having a universal trade; so she worked hard to make me into a healer. I doubt she expected I would ever be here, in Meduseld, with the king.” He paused, taking her in with a quick flicker of his eyes. “With you.”

Éowyn felt a blush creep up her cheeks. “I doubt anyone expected that, except me,” she said, biting back a smile.

Gríma was looking at her like she wasn’t real, like she was some figment of his imagination and would fade at any second. It was sweet, but there was something sad about it too. He was waiting for her to abandon him, tasting the air for rejection; looking into his face was like watching the ending of the world beginning to unfold. “Except you,” he repeated softly. He hesitated, gnawing at his lip and shifting uncomfortably on the bed. Finally, he seemed to settle on the words he wanted to say. “Éowyn, I have been wanting this for months now,” he said, glancing at her and then away, as if afraid to read her expression. “But the court – your brother and your cousin – a thousand things stood in the way, and I never expected you to look twice at me. I confess I find myself… baffled at how this happened. And if you were to regret it – if you perhaps did not intend – ”

Her heart hurt for him, for the words he could not bring himself to say. She set aside her cup and crawled out from under the furs, settling against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulder in surprise, stroking her skin with his thumb. She fitted nicely against his chest, she thought; rather like a puzzle piece clicking into place.

“I know it seems ridiculous,” she began, “Given all the company I have, and the hundreds of courtiers and servants and riders who claim to love and admire me; but I’m lonely. I’m lonely, and I’m sad, and half of my time is spent feeling trapped in this hall. There are things that are expected of me that I do not want, and have never wanted; and the things that I  _do_ want are disliked and disapproved of.” She looked up at him, praying he would see something in her face that would soothe his troubled thoughts. “I think you are the only person to have understood my sadness, in all the time I’ve lived here,” she said. “I think you are the only person who knows what it is like to be surrounded by hundreds of people and yet still be profoundly alone. I think you are tired of being alone. And so am I.” She shrugged a little. “So… I can’t name what this is, and I can’t make you promises as to what the future holds – and would not, even if I felt I could, for much can change as time wears on; but I came to you because I wanted  _you_ , not because you happened to be available at the time, or for any other reason you might be thinking. Does that answer your questions?”

He exhaled, a deep sigh of relief, and the tension seeped out of him completely. “Well enough, for now,” he said. He smiled down at her and hesitantly pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Would that we had all the time in the world, princess; but alas, I think we will soon be wanted in the throne room. The king is holding the first court of the year, and we will be missed if we do not attend.”

Éowyn groaned and sat up, rubbing her eyes with the heels of her palms. “I should have brought clothes,” she said. “It will be nigh impossible to slip off to my chambers without being noticed – ”

“About that.” Gríma leapt up and ran to the end of his bed, scooping up a neatly folded green gown and bringing it to her. “I thought you might perhaps find it easier and less complicated to dress here, so I took the liberty of fetching you a dress.”

Éowyn took the gown from him in surprise and delight, running her fingers over the velvet. “You do think of everything,” she said. “I hope you had time to sleep at some point, between preparing things to ease my morning.”

He shrugged. “I do not sleep much anyway, my lady.” He nodded to the dress. “You’d best hurry with that. Théoden king will be wanting us soon.”

Éowyn sighed heavily and forced herself to get up, wincing as pain lanced through her head. “I don’t suppose that magic potion of yours can cure headaches?” she said, stepping into the gown.

Gríma laughed. “It helps,” he said. “But it will not make the pain go entirely, I’m afraid.”

He slipped behind her and began to tie up the laces of her dress, deft, gentle fingers moving quickly. The feeling awoke memories from the previous night, bringing a smile to her face and heat to her blood. Perhaps  _that_ would serve as a headache cure, if only they had the time…

His breath was soft against her neck as he tied up the last lace. “There,” he murmured, his voice low. Éowyn shivered as his breath danced against her skin, tickling her ear. “All tied up.”

She blushed again, a much deeper shade of scarlet. “Watch your tongue, or you soon will be,” she threatened.

“Is that a promise, precious?” Gríma purred, directly in her ear this time. Éowyn’s breath caught in her throat. Perhaps she could find a way to  _make_ time, if he was going to be like that…

A sharp rapping came at his door, and both Éowyn and Gríma jumped, startled. Gríma stepped away from her and hurried to the door while Éowyn ducked out of sight, leaning over a looking glass on a nearby nightstand and hurriedly combing her hair with her fingers to tame it. At least the new gown would make her look presentable. She would have no need to make excuses for wearing the same gown; and if she looked a little sick, well, she  _had_ been drinking heavily.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when her brother’s voice echoed from the door. “You’re wanted in court, snake,” he said. “And Éowyn too, if you happen to see her. I can’t seem to find her anywhere.”

Éowyn stiffened.  _Snake?_  She had heard the name used before, but she hadn’t realized her brother used it too. And to Gríma’s face, as well? He was a great lumbering ox, her brother, and an ass to boot.

“I will be sure to tell her,” Gríma said, his voice icy. “Should I happen to run across her.”

Éowyn expected that to be all, but Éomer did not move off. “You’ll say nothing else to her, if you do see her,” he said. “I’ve been watching you. You can’t seem to stop looking at her of late. But I suggest you turn your eyes elsewhere. She is my sister, and the blood of Eorl runs in her veins. You haven’t the slightest chance with her, not even in your wildest dreams. You’re a half-breed with the sludge blood of Dunland in you; and we all know what happens when Dunlendings try to get their filthy paws upon the throne – ”

Éowyn had heard quite enough. Furious, she slammed down the looking glass with a clatter and stepped out where Éomer could see her. “And a good morning to you as well, brother,” she said frostily.

Both Gríma and Éomer turned towards her with their mouths open, incredulous and stunned – if for very different reasons. “Éowyn,” Éomer stuttered. “I – what – I just went to your chambers and the maids said – what are you  _doing_  here?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “And I’ll thank you not to dictate who can and cannot pursue me. I believe that’s  _my_  decision, not yours.”

Éomer stared at her for a moment, expression blank; then his eyes narrowed abruptly, fingers curling into fists. “Tell me you have not been here all night long,” he said, his voice little more than a snarl. “Tell me you did not stumble off in some drunken fit and – ”

“She came here seeking a cure for her head and stomach,” Gríma interrupted, stepping protectively in front of her, as if his slight form would keep her from her brother’s wrath. She did not fear her brother – he would never bring harm to her willingly, no matter what perceived wrong she may have committed against him – but she knew that Gríma did, and had reason to. She laid her hand on the small of his back and kept it there, glaring over his shoulder at Éomer. “I have given her one. It will make her more human during today’s hearings. You may rest assured that I will do everything in my power to provide only the best care for your sister.”

Éomer’s eyes darted between them for a moment, testing them, waiting for Éowyn to contradict Gríma’s statement. She nearly did so; she had never been good with lies, and much preferred having everyone know the truth, no matter how awful it might be. But the rage written across Éomer’s features made her fear to speak. Would he hurt Gríma if she told him the truth? Would he be so cruel?

The set of his shoulders relaxed, slowly, but the tension in his jaw did not release. “You’re right, sister,” he said, his voice very soft. “I do not have the right to tell you who you may claim and who you may not. But it is dangerous ground you tread; and you had best be cautious.”

Now it was Gríma who stood furiously, balled fists clenched at his sides. “You are awfully quick to judge who is a danger to your sister, without knowing much of whom you speak,” he spat.

A strange look passed between the two men. There would be a fight soon, Éowyn could almost feel it in her bones. She moved out from behind Gríma and stepped in front of him, now shielding him from Éomer. “Stop,” she said. “Both of you. Do it for me if for no other reason.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence; but then, Gríma exhaled sharply and bowed his head, taking a step back. Éomer sighed and did the same, looking away from them both. “Uncle will expect to see you both in ten minutes’ time. Don’t be late.” He paused, and turned back to Gríma. “And if you  _ever_ hurt her – ”

Gríma held up his hands in surrender. “Then you may kill me slowly, in whatever manner you see fit,” he said.

Éomer smiled thinly. “Have no doubt that I will.”

With that parting shot he was gone, off to the hall and the company of the other riders.

Éowyn and Gríma both exhaled at once. Éowyn turned back to him with an arched brow. “That could certainly have gone better,” she said.

“It could have gone far worse,” Gríma said darkly, still glaring at the door. He seemed to shake off his misgivings and looked back to her with a smile. “Thank you. For defending me.”

She reached up to touch his cheek. “You are in greater need of defense than I knew, my lord,” she said. “I am sorry for the things my brother said. He knows not what he says.”

“I think he knows very well,” Gríma said, bitterness dancing in his eyes. “But I thank you all the same.” He cupped her face in his hands, tenderly tilting her chin up to his. He stared intently into her eyes, something hungry awakening there. “May I?” he murmured, glancing towards her mouth.

She nodded, and he closed the gap, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to her lips. For a moment, a flame came to life inside her, burning hotter and brighter when he deepened the kiss; then it seemed to whimper and cower back when he pulled away. But it was not gone entirely; there was a terrible aching in her veins, a heat she could not quite extinguish.

Gríma smiled at her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “Tonight?” he asked, running his thumb gently across her cheek.

“Tonight,” she breathed; and followed him from his chamber, out towards the waiting court.


End file.
